


I'm Fine, Really.

by stayfr0sty



Category: I Don't Know How But They Found Me (Band), Panic! at the Disco
Genre: .. .mostly everyone, Angst, Casual Affair, Depression, Everyone Is Gay, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Gay, M/M, Panic! at the Disco - Freeform, Unrequited Love, affair, bitch boy, brallon, brendon urie is an asshole, brendon urie? more like bitchboy urie, etc - Freeform, haha get it, he's wonderful irl but rn, idkhow, so is dallon tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-25 17:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17125931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stayfr0sty/pseuds/stayfr0sty
Summary: In which Brendon is lonely and Dallon is pissed off, and Dan thinks Dallon should see a psychiatrist.Also, everything goes to hell, but it's not Dallon's fault.





	1. The Introduction

"Thank you, Sacramento!" Brendon Urie yells into the microphone, and the crowd cheers for him, for Mr. Urie and his perfect hair and his perfect voice and his perfect clothes. A girl in the front row, her makeup smudged and her eyes wild, screams that she loves him. There are countless others shouting the same thing. God, they're all so devoted to him. Oh, how _talented_ he is, how _kind_ , how _generous_.. The worst part is that it's true. I hate him for how perfect he is. For how he draws me in without even trying. It's sickening, and pathetic, and I wish I wasn't so weak.

The fans are still chanting his name when we walk offstage, and I scowl at the roadie taking my bass from me. Someone yells my name, and I ignore it. If they want me, they can come and get me, and even then, I'll ignore them, because I'm exhausted and I want to collapse on a bed - a real bed, for the first time in days - and pass the fuck out.

"It's a hotel night," the man himself, Mr. Brendon fucking Urie, says to me, and I can't help but to smile when I hear his voice.

Fuck. I am so fucking sick of him and what he does to me.

"I know," I tell him, and he tilts his head at me, looking at me like we share a secret. And we do, of course we do, and the whole world would go to hell if they found out. The tabloids would have a fucking field day. The band would fall apart. And I, I would be the cause of it all. He seems to be expecting something else, and when I don't respond, he clears his throat.

"My room number is 708, Weekes." he says with an infuriating grin, a stupid fucking smirk that gives the butterflies in my stomach something to do. I consider swallowing poison, just to get rid of them. Watch their pretty little wings fall off, and maybe Brendon Urie will stop having such an effect on me.

I don't give him the satisfaction of getting a response. I'm not going to room 708. Of course I'm not.

Later, his hands are in my hair and his skin tastes like smoke and sweat and sex. He's drunk, and maybe high, and I hate myself for doing this. I hate myself for liking the way his body feels against mine, for liking his quiet gasps and his low groans, for liking the way he quietly begs for more. His clothes are on the floor, and so are mine, and his wedding ring rests on the table next to the bed. I don't drink, but doing this sober always feels just a tad too wrong. Everything is too clear, too sharp, too in-focus. Closing my eyes and pretending it's someone else doesn't help, either, because I _want_ it to be him, and who would I imagine it to be, anyway? All I want is him. And maybe I have him, but this doesn't feel right.

I'm almost okay with the guilt, however, when he whispers "Dallon, you're so fucking good at this- fuck-," all low and soft, and I look up at him, and he smiles at me, and Jesus, he's perfect even when his hair is sticking up and there's sweat glistening on his forehead. As usual, he is angelic, he is divine, and I want him so badly it hurts, but he's never going to be mine.

Maybe I should drink, I consider as I push into him. Maybe that would make this easier. Besides, I'm not going to heaven, not when I'm fucking a married man. I'm gay and I'm having an affair. Satan will welcome me with open arms.

When we're done and he's lying on the bed, sticky with sweat and saliva and various bodily substances, I want to kiss him. The thought makes me snort. We've been doing this for years, _years_ , and not once has he ever kissed me. Sure, he's left bruises on my skin and scratch marks all down my back, but Mr. Brendon fucking Urie is too good to kiss Dallon Weekes. I've tried. Of course I have. Sometimes, when he's next to me, and he gives me that smile, all full of adoration and softness, I lean in. And then he shifts away.

He just wants sex, and I know that, but God, I wish we could have more.

I stand up, and then a hand is pulling me back down.

"Stay," he insists, and at that, I almost laugh. He wants me to stay, but he won't kiss me. He wants me to fuck him, but he won't do so much as even hold my hand in public.

I stay anyway.

I always do.


	2. Life Goes On, Until It Doesn't

The bus is too loud, and there are too many people. They're laughing, and _he_ is in the center of it all, a beer in his hand and a constant grin on those too-perfect lips. Sarah, beautiful Sarah with her ocean eyes and brunette hair, is seated next to him. His arm is around her, and he kisses her lips, a sweet, romantic gesture that leaves her smiling. Today, Sarah joined our tour, determined to spend more time with her perfect husband and his perfect life. The West Coast leg won't last much longer; four more shows and then finally, finally, we're done, and I won't have to see _him_ for months. In the meantime, Mr. Urie's perfect wife has decided to tag along.

Sarah laughs at something Brendon says, and he pulls her closer, clear love sparkling in his eyes.

I can't take it anymore. I can't.

I stand up, and I push my way past Dan, who's quiet as always, but he opens his mouth to say something when he sees the expression on my face. I don't quite catch his words, but he says my name and maybe something along the lines of "Are you okay?"

No, I want to say. No, I'm not okay. I have been in love with the same man for fucking _years_ now. Ever since I laid my eyes on him, ever since I felt his hand brush against mine, ever since he first invited me to his hotel room, I have been hopelessly stuck in love with Brendon Urie. And he wants nothing to do with me. Or, maybe he does, but it's purely sex. That's all it is with him.

But I should be done with self-pity. Mr. Weekes, get your goddamn act together. Love is a lie, and maybe it's a beautiful lie, adorned with pretty ribbons and flowers and promises of forever, but it is still a fucking lie. Brendon doesn't love Sarah, or me, or anyone. He wants someone to sleep next to every night. Sarah is simply the more attractive option. Me? I'm second best. Brendon wants me when we're on the road, five hundred miles away from his gorgeous home and his gorgeous wife and his gorgeous life. Stop lying to yourself.

Anyways, I ignore Dan, and I head to the back of the bus, where maybe I'll get some peace and quiet. And I do, surprisingly, but not for long, because _he_ pushes open the door and approaches me.

My attention had previously been focused on my phone, but I look up regardless. Maybe he expects me to speak first, because there's an awkward silence, but then he clears his throat.

"Dude," he says, and that certainly doesn't improve my mood, because Brendon knows I fucking hate the word dude, "Come back up front. You look lonely."

"Maybe I want to be," I tell him. "Lonely, that is." There's a sarcastic twist to my words, so maybe Brendon thinks I'm joking, maybe he doesn't.

He ignores me, and extends his hand. "Get up."

And only because I love him, I take his hand, and he pulls me up, and there's a moment where I pretend he's holding my hand just to hold it. And for a second, he holds my hand longer than necessary, and my fantasy continues. Maybe he'll lean in and kiss me. Maybe he'll smile and remind me that he loves me, even though he's never told me that before. Maybe he'll-

"Bro, come on, let's go. We got beer to drink," he says with a grin, clapping me on the back before turning and heading back the way he came.

Or not.

I follow him, however reluctantly, and stand next to Dan as I watch Brendon rejoin his wife on the couch. Dan is still looking at me with that concern in his eyes, and I wish he would just fuck off, because I'm fine, really. Everyone falls in love with their best friend at some point, and it's only a matter of ignoring it and pretending you aren't breathless whenever they smile at you.

"Dallon," he says, and when I hear his tone, I heave a sigh. This will not go down well.

"Dallon," he repeats, "Look at me."

I do.

"You've been moody all day," he observes, and I wonder if it's that obvious, and I wonder if anyone's connected it to Sarah's arrival.

He continues, "Is it because tour's almost over?"

I force a smile. "Yeah, yeah. I don't know. I'm just gonna miss you guys."

"Me too." Dan seems content, for the time being, but then he continues. "But are you sure? You haven't been.. right."

No. No, I haven't. I haven't been right since the day Brendon Urie came crashing into my life and turned everything upside down.

"I'm fine," I insist.

This is maybe the third time he's checked in on me in as many weeks. I appreciate the concern, but there is no healing from the particular wound Brendon Urie carves into my flesh every time he looks at me.

I go to bed early, and I try to pretend my life isn't falling apart.


	3. Like That

We're in Los Angeles, and this hotel we're staying at is a little more shabby, a little more unsavory, and I don't feel at all safe. The TV picks up only two channels: one, a Spanish cartoon, and two, shitty porn. I opt for the Spanish cartoons.

The shower is working, thank God, and I'm just settling down for the night when I hear a knock on my door. I pray that it isn't a murderer, because as shitty as life feels right now, the last think I want to do is get stabbed to death in a cheap motel in L.A.

It's not a murderer, I find out when I open the door. It's Brendon.

He's drunk; that much is obvious, and he's smiling. Without asking, he steps inside, and I close the door behind him.

I have no reason to be kind to him, so I ask, "Where's your wife?"

His smile doesn't falter. "On the bus," he answers, and his words are final, and it's clear we aren't talking about her right now, because he's stepping towards me, he's slipping his wedding ring off and he's pushing me onto the bed and I have no choice but to let him. Brendon does what he wants, and I am caught up in his tidal waves of destruction. He plays me like a violin, he coaxes what he wants out of me and I go along with it, because I'm in love with him and this is the closest I will ever get to having him. I'm lucky enough that he wants me in this way, that he wants my warmth just as much as I want his. Now, I can pretend, now I can pretend that he's mine.

His movements are more urgent. Something is off. I ignore it, however, attributing it to my own imagination. There is something desperate in the way he grabs at me, like he is a dying man and I am the cure for whatever illness is plaguing him. He pulls me closer, and I see stars. He whispers my name, and I wish my heart would stop fluttering. His nails are pressing into my back, his teeth are digging into my neck, and I know there will be marks, and I couldn't possibly care less, for the boy that I love is in my arms and his heartbeat is in sync with mine. Mine, mine, he is mine, if only for tonight.

The way Brendon looks at me is indescribable. The fantasy I'm harboring, the one where he loves me and we are together and it is absolutely perfect, seems to almost come true for a minute, because he leans forward, and he kisses me. He kisses me, and our galaxies collide and now, I am living in a universe where Brendon Urie loves me. He loves me, and he's kissing me, and he's pulling me closer by my hair and I forget who I am, who he is. We are not Brendon Urie and Dallon Weekes. We are not two separate worlds. We are not two parallel lines, never to intersect. We are one. We are kissing, and he tastes like Jack Daniels, and everything has to be different now, now that our worlds have collided.

Most of the time, I hate him for what he's done: which is, essentially, nothing, but I have always thought he doesn't love me back.

I was wrong, I was wrong, for the first time, I am happy I was wrong.

He loves me. He has to. How could he not, when he's looking at me like that? When he kissed me like that?

He pulls away before it goes further, as it always inevitably does. "We need to talk," he says breathlessly, and I am finally in agreement with him.

Something has changed in the way he looks at me, and I finally have hope that there could be something between us, something more. There is no going back, now that our parallel lines have met.


	4. We Need To Talk

"We need to talk," he says again, and I nod.

"Yeah. Yeah, we do." I tell him, and I'm smiling, but Brendon isn't sharing my smile. The tiniest bit of doubt gnaws at my stomach. He looks shocked, and maybe that's normal, maybe he's just coming to terms with what just happened. Finally, he shakes his head, as if he's clearing his thoughts, and tentatively offers a smile back.

"Brendon-"

"Dallon-"

We speak at the same time, and I'm the only one who laughs.

"You first," he insists.

I take a deep breath, and I remember how he kissed me only moments before. Like he was gasping for breath, and I was his oxygen.

"I've wanted to say this for a long time," I say, and he nods, looking relieved.

"Me too," he interjects, and I sigh. Thank God. Thank God, it's confirmed. He loves me. He loves me, he loves me, he loves me. After all this time, after all this waiting and pining and hoping, he finally loves me back. My dreams have come true in a shitty motel just off the coast of L.A. Our galaxies have collided for good.

This isn't how I imagined it, but God, am I happy.

"And I wasn't sure how to say this.." I continue, and he's still nodding along, looking like he's about to say something. "But, I-"

"We need to stop doing this," Brendon says, just as I say "I'm in love with you."

It is silent. The room is silent.

I can't breathe.

I can't breathe, I can't breathe, I can't breathe.

"Dallon, I-" He looks guilty.

"Don't." I interrupt him. "Don't say anything."

He's still on my lap. His clothes, albeit for his underwear, are still on the floor. The Spanish cartoons are still playing in the background. Everything is the same, and yet everything is so, so different. I think back to how he kissed me. I think back to how his fingers dug into my hips. How he kissed me.. how he kissed me like he was saying goodbye.

It appears, I think wryly, that I have misread this situation.

Finally, I am the one who speaks.

"Why did you kiss me?" My throat is dry. I wonder if I am crying.

Brendon doesn't look distraught. He looks.. uncomfortable. He looks like a kid with their hand caught in the cookie jar. He looks like he would rather be anywhere but here.

"I'm not sure," he answers, guilty eyes shifting away to focus on the door, and not my face, because he wouldn't dare make eye contact with me.

"Please." My voice breaks. "Please. Don't leave."

"Dallon." His voice is firm, and without pity. "Dallon, we have to end this."

I'm silent.

"I have a wife."

"Didn't seem to stop you before," I remark dryly.

"I'm not going to keep doing this. I'm not going to keep hurting her, however indirectly."

"And?" My voice rises in tone. "What about me? What about hurting me?"

"This was an affair. Nothing more." Brendon's voice, too, is louder, and he finally looks back at me.

"You kissed me! You held me!"

"It didn't mean shit, Dallon!"

We're not screaming, exactly, but it's loud enough. I'm hurt. He's angry.

"I'm in love with you," I say again. "I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you, I'm in love with you."

He is silent. And just like that, our galaxies separate.


	5. Falling Apart At The Seams

Brendon seems satisfied. Satisfied that it's over, that he got what he wanted, and as he stands up, I wish I could disappear on the spot.

"Not even a goodbye?" I whisper, and I wish I didn't sound so goddamn pathetic. I hate myself. I hate everything that I stand for.

He turns to look at me, and as he pulls on his jacket, he shakes his head.

"This was an affair. Nothing. More," he repeats, tone as cold as ice.

"It felt like more," I say, unable to stop myself.

He stops. "Well," he says with a clenched jaw, "It wasn't."

With that, he turns, and as he slides his wedding ring back on, he walks to the door, pushing it open. It takes me a minute to realize that Brendon's footsteps have stopped. That he is still standing there, face pale as a ghost.

I push myself up off the bed, and that's when I see her. Sarah Urie, as gorgeous as ever, standing in the hallway. The look on her face proves that she heard enough.

In a horribly sick way, I'm glad she knows. Brendon will suffer. Good. Let him. What has he ever done for me, besides kiss me then stab me in the back? I have been manipulated by him for far too long. And yet, as he's dragged off by Sarah and I can hear their argument beginning, my heart starts to ache for him.

Los Angeles is my graveyard, and this hotel room is my tomb. I do not sleep. I do not get up to close the door. I lay there, and I wish I had never been born.

This is my fault. Or maybe it's Brendon's; he is a hurricane, and I am a byproduct of his destruction. Or maybe I helped cause it. Whatever the case, our galaxies are set to never collide again, and I don't think I'll ever be able to look in his eyes without thinking of how he dismissed me that night in Los Angeles, or how the expression on Sarah's face looked, or how it all came crashing down.

It was a mistake to love him. It was a mistake, and I won't ever recover. Not when even hearing his name causes me to wince, and seeing his face is more than I can bear.

My heart hurts, and I don't know who to blame.

But I'm fine, really.


End file.
